


Christ!(mas) or, The Holiday Traditions of the Holmeses

by Birdgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Weird Christmas traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl/pseuds/Birdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This may be the strangest day in John Watson's life. No, sod that, this is OFFICIALLY, irrefutably, indisputably, (and probably some other big -ly words) the strangest day in John Watson's life.</p><p>Yes, yes, I know I should be working on my other unfinished stories, but I've really been wanting to do a Christmas fic for the holidays. Here you go!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just A Normal Christmas

Ah, Christmas eve. Many a Christmas did John remember sitting around the hearth near the tree, chugging eggnog and setting out sweets for Saint Nick, wearing ugly sweaters and pretending that you liked them, throwing snowballs and drinking hot cocoa. 

Every once in a while, Harry would mix try to sneak a bit of rum into the eggnog, despite John's chastising, and would even bring along whatever girlfriend she happened to have acquired for the season. That is, if she came at all.

Well, Christmas was Christmas. Put up the stockings, decorate the tree, wrap the presents, string the lights- all the usual Christmas stuff. Sometimes, you think, it's easy to take it for granted. Which is why he felt inclined to drop a fiver into the bucket of a street corner Santa on the way back to the flat. Yep, just a normal Christmas, right as rain.

That is, unless you live in flat 221B on Baker Street.

/

John stepped up the stairs to the door of 221B and immediately tripped, nearly smashing his face into the door. Frowning, he looked down, to see three pairs of very odd shoes lined up in front of it. For one, they were extraordinarily bright in color, with many patterns painted across them. Then there was their odd shape- tiny, thick heels at the end and deathly sharply tips at the front. And, remarked John as he picked one up, they were all made of wood.

John replaced the shoes and blinked, staring at them quizzically. What in the world…? Well, this was undoubtedly Sherlock's doing, and he would certainly have a few questions for the Consulting Detective when he got upstairs.

He didn't quite get upstairs, though. Just as he was about to climb the first step an awful crash came from behind him. Turning around, he sidestepped to narrowly miss a tall, skinny figure in a devilish Mask. John's shopping bags crashed to the ground, and John himself rolled away from the intruder and stood up to put his back against the wall behind him.

The intruder in question had crashed into the stairs, having missed his target, and was slowly getting back up, shaking himself off in a very nonchalant way. It was almost as if he wasn't alarmed at all. John took the opportunity to run up and clog the man in the side of the head (no pun intended), efficiently knocking him down.

He stood above the figure. The costume this man was wearing was definitely demonic. Gnarly horns protruded from his head and beasty fur was a suit on his body. A thin red tail protruded from his back end. The intruder was clutching his head, grunting with pain. Served him right, he thought as he lifted up the mask. What sort of sick game did this guy think he was playing? Who in their right mind would-

"...Sherlock???"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clogs are a special Dutch tradition, where instead of stockings the Dutch children put out the wooden shoes to be filled by Saint Nick on Saint Nicholas' Day, which is actually on December 5th. However, I wanted to put it in my story. You guys don't mind, right?  
> Anyways, if you want to learn more about it, here's a helpful link I found:  
> http://www.whychristmas.com/cultures/holland.shtml


	2. Krampus

Up in the flat a few minutes later, Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair wearing a ridiculously ugly costume, holding an ice pack to his head.

"And what in the world did you do that for?" He asked accusingly.

"Why did I defend myself, in the dark, while there was an alleged intruder in my flat, wearing a demonic bloody costume? You're kidding me."

"It's not demonic, it's traditional."

"It's-" John paused, searching for the right words. Failing, he said "Well, what IS it, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed, like he always did when he thought John wasn't grasping something obvious.

"Really, John, I thought you liked this stuff. Christmas sentiment and all."

"Christmas what? Sherlock… Oh, Sherlock, I don't even know if I want to know, but how in hell does attacking me in a freaky costume have anything to do with Christmas???"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John was obviously missing something. Sometimes, though, it wasn't something really as important as what Sherlock carried on with.

"John, honestly, how could you NOT know that I'm simply disguised as Krampus." he said in his dumbing-it-down-for-idiots voice.

"A krampa-whatta?"

"Krampus. A creature originating in Alpine folklore, said to be the archenemy of Saint Nick. The Austrian children don't just get coal in their stockings if they're bad- no, they get Krampus. On the preceeding evening of the Feast of Saint Nicholas is Krampusnacht, or the night of Krampus, where the horned beast prances around the Alpine streets, scaring children out of their stockings. I thought you'd find it funny."

"Funny? FUNNY? Sherlock, that is the most ridiculous thing… is that even a thing? No, you couldn't have made that up, surely. But Sherlock, you ATTACKED me!!!"

"And got a pounding headache for it, thank you very much."

"You bloody well deserved it, you know." Said John, trying to keep on a serious face. However, it wasn't long at all before he started laughing, and not long after that until Sherlock joined in, and they both laughed until their stomachs hurt. When they had finally calmed themselves down, they heard a ring of the doorbell.

Suddenly, Sherlock's face went sour. "Don't answer it." he said irritably.

"What? Why?"

"I'm not home."

"Sherlock, who is it?"

"Say I'm not home."

"Sherlock!"

"No, don't go to the door!"

"Sherlock, unless our lives are in danger, I'm going to answer the door."

"No, don't-"

"Are they?"

"Well, technically no, but-"

John didn't hear the rest, as he trod down the stairs to answer the door. A quick peep through the keyhole made him unconsciously give a half grin of amusement. God, Sherlock could be really immature sometimes. He opened the door, observing a tall man in a suit and slicked back hair, twirling an umbrella in his left hand.

"Happy Christmas, Mycroft."

"Yes, and as well to you, John. Now, where has my dear brother gone?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, there is such a thing as Krampus. In fact, not just the Austrians, but Hungarians, Slovenians, and Croatians evidently like to scare their children 'round Christmastime. On occasion there is even a Krampelstauf- a group of (possibly a bit drunk) holiday celebrationists who all dress as the demon and prance around the streets. No really, I couldn't make this up.  
> Here's a link about Krampus:  
> http://www.krampus.com/index.php


	3. The age-old sport of bickering

John nodded up in the direction of the flat. "He says he's not here."

Mycroft smirked. "Quite honestly, John, I don't think he's always fully with us, either, if you catch my drift."

John's snort was cut off by a particularly grouchy voice upstairs. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and set up the stairs, stepping over the wooden shoes, with John following close behind. The older Holmes brother strode into the main room, completely unsurprised at the physical state of the younger one.

Sherlock glared at the man who was fully responsible for making his good mood disappear, snapping "Will you just tell me where it is already?", eliciting an eye-roll from Mycroft.

John looked from one Holmes to the other, suddenly extremely confused.

"I've missed something."

Mycroft looked in John's direction, face apologetic.

"I apologize. My dear brother is just upset because he hasn't been able to guess where I might have hidden the pickle."

"The what?"

"Christmas tradition, John," Sherlock interrupts, "Honestly, I must know more about this Christmas season than you do. And you're the one that always wears those atrocious sweaters even off-season."

John's eye twitched, and he had to bite his lip to keep from starting an argument, instead replying "And your point?"

"My point is that it's an American tradition to hang a pickle as an ornament in the center of the Christmas tree. But we all know that's too boring, so Mycroft decided to hide it somewhere in this flat… normally whoever finds it first gets 'good luck', but that's boring, so Mycroft promised my twenty quid…"

He turned to Mycroft. "Except that's hardly fair, as you haven't hidden it in the flat, have you? Tell me where it is."

"That would be cheating, brother."

"You've cheated first! I've been here all day and I KNOW it is not in this flat."

"I never said it would be in the flat, Sherlock."

"Rubbish!"

"No, no, I believe I said it would be at your residence."

Sherlock thought for a moment. Then his eyes widened and he bolted up from his spot on the couch, flinging the icepack across the room and darting for the door. His riled up voice could be heard from down the stairs.

"Mycroft, you sod! You absolute sod!"

Mycroft, in contrast, was laughing. Really, genuinely, laughing. John had never seen Mycroft laugh before, but now he observed Government Agent essentially breaking down into a fit of giggles. This made John start to laugh as well, and it escalated when he saw the look on Sherlock's face as he trod back up the stairs, all in a huff.

"John, this isn't something to be laughing about!"

John clamped a hand over his mouth, but it didn't do much to squelch his giggling.

"And Mycroft! That was hardly fair, hiding them in the clogs!"

John finally stopped laughing. "The what?"

"The CLOGS, John. Don't tell me you didn't notice them- they're right in front of the door!"

Mycroft smirked. "One could say the same of you, brother."

"Oh, shut up- you know that wasn't playing by the game, Mycroft-"

"If I remember, Sherlock, it was you who suggested not playing by the rules, and not just putting it in the tree like the original tradition. In fact I recall your exact words to John not but a few seconds ago- 'we all know that's too boring', so in actuality-"

John interrupts. "The clogs?"

Both men stop abruptly with their bickering, instead just giving each other hard glares for a minute, before Mycroft finally answers.

"The Clogs are a tradition from Holland. Instead of those ridiculous stockings everyone hangs on the fireplace, secretly wishing Jolly old Saint Nick will break into their house by the ridiculous means of a chimney, these more respectable children put clogs outside to be filled with candies or some other ridiculous treat. Why, it seems my brother has even put a pair out for you. How nice of him. However, my pair on the other hand, I cannot accept-"

"Oh, Mycroft. I was merely being charitable. And anyways, I knew you might like some sweets of your own. We'll call it a small reward for sticking to your diet like a champ. How is that going, by the way?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, eyes flaring with malicious intent, before he changed the subject, teeth only slightly clenched.

"So, John. Where could I find some tea?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pickle is, contrary to popular belief, not a German tradition. German children do not have pickles on their trees at Christmas, nor do they even have Christmas on the 25th. Theirs, like many other countries, happens around the 5th and 6th of December. I just thought it would be fun to include.  
> More about the pickle:  
> http://german.about.com/library/blgermyth11.htm
> 
> Christmas in Holland is really a lot more like Easter if you think about it. They leave their shoes out to be filled with sweets (Because face it you can't really fit an Xbox360 in a shoe), and at Sinterklaas parties (Santa parties) they play treasure hunting games to find hidden presents from Santa.  
> More about the Clogs:  
> http://www.whychristmas.com/cultures/holland.shtml


	4. Coffee Hostility

After a few moments of polite chit-chat between John and Mycroft, Sherlock grunted and lifted himself from his chair, walking in the direction of his room, seemingly to go change. After a few minutes, he came back in his robe. Another glare was shared between the brothers, then. Even without words, John could tell what they were "saying". He could imagine the conversation.

'Sherlock, honestly, couldn't you at least TRY to look more presentable?'

'Why would I? This is MY flat, you remember.'

John abruptly stopped translating. It was enough when they bickered aloud, he just couldn't stand it being in his head as well. Instead he cleared his throat, asking Mycroft if he'd like some more tea.

"No, thank you, John. Actually, I was having a bit of a coffee craving, actually. Long day at the North Korean office, I'm afraid- oh, ha, you didn't hear that. But yes, coffee, thank you. At least one person in this flat has some sense of hospitality." he finished, pointedly staring at Sherlock.

John winced, lifting himself from the chair. This was getting ridiculous. They were grown men.

Sherlock held up a hand. "Oh, don't worry, John, I'll get his tea. I was going to the kitchen, anyways." he growled. Even though he was speaking to John, all hostility was being pointed in the direction of Mycroft. Honestly.

Sherlock opened the cupboard, pulling out a cup with the chink of ceramic. He then set to the coffee maker, turned it on, and thrust the pot under the dispenser. He was doing all this rather loudly, to John's annoyance.

"Sugar, dear brother? Or would you like it with cream?"

"I'll take mine black, thank you."

"Are you sure? I'm sure John's got that low-fat sweetener somewhere. Rubbish stuff, but I wouldn't want you to abstain because of your diet, dear brother of mine."

Mycroft's eyebrow twitched fractionally. "No, thanks, just the coffee will do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but I find the Holmes brothers' bickering hilarious. Such witty banter, yet so utterly childish. Sorry, no weird traditions this chapter, but I really wanted to include this little section. I suppose that means I'll have to lengthen my original story plan to 6 chapters...


	5. The Creature

After yet a few more minutes, the coffee was made and served. John and Mycroft enjoyed a friendly conversation for about half an hour, talking about the absurdity of purchasing a real Christmas tree every year when you could just use a plastic over and over, when Sherlock, out of nowhere, groaned.

"When are we going to do something interesting?" he sprung from his chair again, then, as suddenly as before, this time in the direction of his room.

There was a lot of loud rummaging coming from that direction within the minute, and John just hoped Sherlock wasn't breaking anything.

Sherlock came back with a smile on his face, holding the weirdest little thing. It was made of five pieces of wood- one stout piece for the body, and 6 little ones for the legs. A red nose and a little red hat decorated the creature, as well as some painted on eyes. A cabby's stick was held in the crook of Sherlock's elbow.

"Finally. Now we get to the FUN part of the evening."

"God, Sherlock… okay. I'm not even going to ask. Why don't you tell me what this one is?" John shakes his head, eyeing the wooden creature with utter bewilderment.

"Oh, my dear John, wherever did you spend your childhood? You say I live under a rock, and you don't even know about the caga tió!"

Mycroft interjected. "Well, Sherlock, it is a bit of an obscure tradition, you can't exactly blame the man."

Sherlock sneered. "But honestly, this is the most interesting part of Christmas! How could he not?"

"Just explain it to him, brother. I'm sure John is growing weary of your belittling."

Sherlock whipped around to John, cloak billowing behind him. "The Caga Tió is a Catalonian tradition. You make a character out of wood, and up until Christmas eve, you 'feed' the thing sweets, chocolates, whatever. I never really understood that part, because honestly, it's just a piece of wood. However, the fun part comes on Christmas eve, where for no reason at all the Catalonians decide to beat the treats out of the thing, making it 'poop' out its goodies. I still don't even understand why they do this, but really, it's just good fun."

Without further ado, Sherlock put the wooden creature on the floor of the flat, and started beating it with the stick, eyes lit up in sheer glee, strokes highly concentrated and purposeful. It was the absolutely most absurd thing John had ever seen.

John, in fact, couldn't stop laughing. "They feed the wood doll, then make it… oh, my god, I'm laughing… to hard…" he stumbles out.

He then turned to Mycroft. "You know, this can't be very healthy." he said, motioning to the grown man whacking a wooden doll on the floor.

 

"But it certainly can be amusing." Mycroft replied, and the two had another good laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The caga tio is a real tradition. I could not have made this one up either if I tried. Translated to English, caga tio is literally "defecating wood". Yes, shitting wood- and a happy Christmas to you, too, Sherlock. ^_^  
> More on the Caga Tio:  
> http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/picturegalleries/8214909/The-worlds-weirdest-Christmas-traditions.html


End file.
